Before the Tide
by ssapientia
Summary: While plagued by disturbing visions, Artanis meets a shadow in the woods.


**A/N - Don't own and all that. This was written for a friend of mine who wanted these particular characters meshed together. It also stems from my interest in the idea of fore-sight, and is a dramatic version of that concept. Young Galadriel - Artanis - is by far my favourite version of her, and this is based while she relatively young - think teenager - before the future hardships that haunt her in visions. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think.**

* * *

_For the moment she can't move, trapped within a body that cannot hold its own weight, plumb undeveloped limbs useless at her side. These are the hands and feet of a babe, her eyesight blurry, making out the rough shape of branches around her, the shifting of leaves against an icy breeze. The air stinks of something horrid, something she has never smelt. Like the reek of old flesh in a fire, yet worse. Her stomach stings with an unfamiliar pain, hunger. But she cannot move to eat. She wants to wail but she does not have the strength, the bundle next to her was crying was it not? But it has stopped now and it is still._

"Artanis?"

The images fade instantly, the cool forest, the foul reek, but the dread stays with her. They all do. Irissë is staring at her curiously, hair pulled forth over her shoulders, shockingly dark against the white silk of her gown.

"Apologises cousin," she replies, willing her voice to remain steady, "my mind was taken by a strange thought." She looks around at her companions, cousins all, lounging in the splendid gardens of her grandfather's house. Irissë had pulled her outside to join them, their half-cousins, but now she wishes she had stayed with her brothers. Artanis has never enjoyed the company of the sons of Fëanáro half as much as Irissë does, but she cannot blame her. She cannot see the sickness inside them, a black plague which has not yet taken them, but it will. For a moment she wonders if it is fair to judge them for what has not yet come to pass. No, it is not, but it makes their company hard to keep.

"That is no deed to apologise for, young Artanis," Maitimo calls out, his red hair bold and beautiful against the dimming sky. "For many maiden's minds wander far when Tyelkormo boasts of his hunting prowess."

Laughter rings throughout the gardens of Finwë, a sight she is sure would please her grandfather. The tension between their fathers has caused him great discomfort, yet he will not speak of it. Will not acknowledge his first born's foul words and disrespect towards his half-brothers. Artanis truly wishes she could feel as content with them as Irissë does, truly wishes to build bridges between their families. For a moment the whispers in her mind cease with the laughter, her anxiety dissipates into the stream of pleasant sounds. It is glorious, this peace, she feels a fondness sweep across her chest for them all, her dear cousins. The sound of Macalaurë's merriment is filled with the beauty of his harp, and Maitimo appears more beautiful than she had ever thought him. But as she turns to Tyelkormo the growing smile dies on her lips. His are pulled into a tight frown, Irissë's pale hand lies innocently against his dark cloth of his arm. The gesture sickens her and she does not know why. Macalaurë's laughter has ceased and is forgotten, Maitimo's hair reminds her of fire. _How splendid he would look surrounded by it_, her mind calls out, _bright and burning in an endless chasm of flame. _

She stands swiftly, violently almost, it was Tyelkormo's voice that had lulled her into the terrifying vision and she had no wish to be around him. "If you would excuse me cousins, I am not feeling too well," she bows her head slightly, letting the gold locks shield her face. Maitimo waves her off dismissively and Macalaurë offers her a soft smile, "of course Artanis." His soft voice always sounds like it is singing sweetly, how much more beautiful it would sound in an endless string of mourning and despair.

Her head starts to ache and she turns to rush off, never before has she experienced such a bombardment of strange visions. Not the usual far distance imagery, remote calls from a surreal depth of time, but sights clear and focused, all senses sharp and burning against her skin. And such cruel voices too, not unlike her own, but a different tone, a darkness she does not appreciate hearing in her own voice.

She needs space to clear her mind, the lingering breaths of life yet unlived is clawing at her, threatening to break forth and devour her whole. Not to her room in her grandfather's house. She does not wish to see her father or brothers, does not wish to be shut up with high walls that trap her. High walls that surround her in every aspect of life. The depth of the forest is where she wishes to be, with only the sky as a roof above her.

She knows Irissë is displeased, embarrassed by her behaviour, but cannot bring herself to feel anything but relief as she enters the dull edge of shrubbery, the depth of the trees are beaconing her inward.

* * *

Deep she travels, playful imaginings dimming her prior worry. In the woods Artanis is not a young elf, barely passed her maturity, but a wise queen and protector of all around her. Leaning against a magnificent tree she admires its roots, they twist and turn into all sorts of foreboding shapes. Oddly enough it calms her, she is the patron protector of all the tall trees in their glory, hanging high above her in praise. Artanis begins to hum lightly, a small thanks to the shelter she has found, and lets her fingers run between the cracks of an old branch.

Drifting towards slumber she rests, mind hushed, surrounded by a soothing tranquillity.

Then it is over, the small peace she had gathered, shattered by the oncoming of weighted soles. The twigs that litter the forest floor snap, alerting the elleth to a steady approach. Someone who does not appreciate the still air of this domain she has made for herself. They are making no move to tread quietly, or to take their time in admiration or contemplation. They are heavy steps, rankled with frustration. She has no wish to engage with someone in such a mood, her own heart only just calmed. So she ducks behind one of the thick branches, whispering a thanks against it.

"Fëanáro"She realises, before hushing herself, '_the last all beings I am in the mood to speak with' _She remains hidden, regardless of the disrespect she implies by doing so.

Of all the members of the families born to the sons of Indis, she was among the few whom Fëanáro spoke to in polite words. Artanis guesses he does so only by the nature of her youth and gender, that she is of no true consequence to his dealings and so she is treated with the distant cordiality. The implications burn, rubbing against the raw wound of slighted pride. (Yet she ignores her father's warning that Fëanáro does not treat others with civility because of disinterest).

Whatever Fëanáro's thoughts on her personally, there is no way she could forget the constant insult he pays her dear father and uncle. How her father lets his pride suffer under his half-brothers disrespect she will never understand, and although Ñolofinwë is less graceful in accepting such mockery, he still allows his words to simmer and cool beneath his father's gaze. She could never hate her grandfather for anything this side of the sea, but she will not pretend him to be the perfect being the way his sons have the tendency to do. Nor will she forgive him for the self-imposed ignorance to Fëanáro's actions.

'_Fëanáro' _the young girl mumbles against the trunk of her new found friend and protector, tasting the dry bark on her tongue. She spies him through the branches, his face tugged into a fierce frown that might under other occasions prompt her to stand in his way. Her uncle is furious, his temper always passionate. Artanis sees his fury play hot against his skin. For a moment she swears she sees flames there, licking at his pale face in the dark.

His image begins to fade, and in her mind she mocks him. It is as if he has lost some of his animosity as he makes his way out of the forest, and that anger has found her. An icy breeze caresses at her back, garments that are far too thin for the deep woods. She stares long into the direction her half-uncle stormed off into, still hidden behind her new favourite tree. He has gone and brought his irritation back to the house of Finwë, where some poor soul will encounter him. She hopes it is not her father.

"_Fëanáro" _she spits, repeating his name for a third time. The malice in her voice surprises her, a shadow is crawling in these woods now, infecting her mind. She has been betrayed by these fine branches, the mangled roots no longer seem appealing. They are tangled, artless, they are not beautiful as she thought. Something lingers here that is not her, sapping away at their life and song. Artanis does not feel like a queen any longer, now that she is not alone.

"Child" a deep voice calls out and she spins around in fright so quickly she almost stumbles to the ground, clumsily peering around to see the source. A heavy chuckle rises, most likely at her expense, and then she sees him. '_Melkor'_ her mind whispers (or does it scream, she cannot tell). Tall and majestic, footsteps so smooth and soft against the dirt floor of the clearing she would have thought he was gliding if she could not see his steps. For a moment she is captivated, eyes watching this creature who fits in so well with the dark corners of the woods, mouth paused open in curiosity.

"Why do you speak the prince's name with such disdain" his voice is so deep Artanis feels as if she may be swallowed by it. There is a song on his lips, and it is unlike any she has ever heard. He comes closer and she snaps out of her trance, dignity forcing her to stand straight and reply.

"I did not mean to do so, my lord" and she inclines her head slightly, but she will not bend herself to this half wasted god, repented or not in the land of Aman. _Perhaps it was your influence_ she dares only to speak in her mind, for the pieces fit together, that his being in such proximity could have lead her emotions astray.

"Perhaps" his lips turn upwards, eyes drawn lazily in her direction. She fights back the horror but does not apologise. He turns away then, his gaze upward, looking for something lost amidst the sky. Artanis is sure he has lost interest in her but does not dare move until she is sure of it. She lingers at the corner of the clearing, back against that stubborn trunk, watching the cloth that hangs off his shoulders. It is a dark grey, almost black, and it flows so effortlessly around his broad frame, red seams that remind her of when Irisse returns from the hunt. She hopes he will leave soon, but he does not.

"And who are you, young one? Lingering alone in the dark with angry words towards your superiors."

The comment irritates her immensely, she does not appreciate being thought of as Fëanáro's lesser. "I am Artanis, daughter of Arafinwë and Eärwen" she states proudly, voice rising to the shadow, "and you need not introduce yourself, for I have seen you as a child in Valimar." _And in the dark_, the voices recite, she prays he cannot hear them.

"Ah, and what has the prince done to upset his young niece in such a way" His mass wanders closer "Do you match him in his pride and long to rid him of his own," his self-satisfied smile widens for a moment, "Such a disposition I would not expect from a child of Arafinwë," she feels his eyes roll over her, his disinterest rising. For some sickening reason she does not want that, to be overlooked as another daughter of the royal house, made only for singing sweet songs and ornamenting pretty houses.

"It is not his pride alone I begrudge of him" she declares, "yet his treatment of his kin, the children of Indis. Long has he persisted in the idea that he is our better_" And also terrible things yet to come, passion that turns to madness. Madness that turns into screams of panic and fear._

"Ah" she thinks she sees him grin. Can he hear the whisperings? Artanis is sure he can.

The shadow is silent for a time, but she feels his rising curiosity, it settles upon her like a net. He is assessing her, here in the forest, green leaves which have turned grey in the dark.

"Three times" he speaks, voice rumbling. "Three times you spoke your dear uncle's name, cursing him in all but words"

Artanis is unsure how to react, he does not seem to be asking her anything at all. Nor does she know what compelled her to react so negatively to her uncle's presence, except that her day had been one of apprehension and restlessness. And when she had found a place to clear her mind of its traitorous whisperings against her own kin, he had stormed through the calm with his loud boots and fury, angering her beyond what was deserved. Artanis wishes to place the blame on the figure in front of her, the trim of his cloth stretching across bronze dirt, but her heart knows of a deeper betrayal. Of demands he believes himself entitled to, pressuring and possessing. Of shining bright lights that burn the eyes and hands, beautiful and dreadful to behold. And lastly of blood, her own, mixing in with the ocean which she stands upon.

"Such things belong in sets of three" her voice distant, she is no longer leaning against cool bark. Instead she is by the ocean, starring out into the gulf, The Great Sea. Her bare feet are numb in cold water, dress teared and dirty. She stares down at her hands, red and black. Tears and sweat and blood mingling at the shoreline. The ocean has been set alight.

She comes to quickly, breathes in sharp beats but quickly remembers her audience. Melkor is staring at her, eyes still lidded, but Artanis is acutely aware that she dominates his attention now. She would not have wished for acknowledgement if this is what it felt like, his eyes on every inch of her and she worries it might bruise, skin far too pale to hide a purple blemish.

"Such strong foresight" he finally utters. Again she can hear that distant song on his lips as he moves closer, what is that? - an echo of music which interweaves with every note on his voice. So wild and fierce, dangerous even. "Stronger than any I have sensed among your people before. Does it pain you child, to hear those voices in the fog?" Closer still "Or do you enjoy them. Being special among your kin, does it satisfy you? I have quite the eye for special things."

"No," she replies in truth, for she is sure he would know if she spoke in lies. "It does not satisfy."

"No, I did not think it would." Grinning again, all things terrible in that smile, and reaches out so suddenly Artanis thinks he is making to strike her. She leans away, frightened by the sudden proximity, but he is too quick, stretching out to let his fingers run through her hair.

"Your hair," he starts, "glows as if it has ensnared the light of the two tree." Fingers tracing downward, fascinated by her fair locks, smile turning sour. He turns to her suddenly, with an intensity the young elf wishes she would have never seen. "You are not satisfied with this life," he croons at her, pulling his fingers away to her face. "There is something more to be had," his breath hot against her cheek, "across the far sea."

She cannot move from the spot, and every muscle in her body tenses at the invasion of privacy, horror spews forth onto her stomach, fists clenched tight. Does he not know the insulting implications of his nearness? Artanis is positive he does, flaunting his authority over her in such a manner was entirely vulgar. She wishes to push him away and run back to her grandfather's house, back to the garden with her cousin's charming laughter. How had she hated them? Even for only a moment.

"There is freedom," the malicious spirit pushes. "_And power_" Artanis hates the way the words incite her, _power_, _control_, for he seems to stare into what she desires most. No longer would she stand in the lowest position within the house of Finwë, but in her own lands, forever fair and elegant. Royal or not, in the blessed realm she would never rule. His words weigh down against her cheek, heavy, heated.

"Artanis!"

The trance is broken and Melkor pulls back, allowing a moment for his hand to linger within her tresses. She is frightened and nauseous and has never felt happier to see Fëanáro stomping towards her, body leaning unconsciously towards him. His arm wraps around hers tightly, roughly, his grip straining against her tired limbs. But she does not mind.

Fëanáro offers Melkor a slight incline of his head, contempt for the valar obvious in his movements, yet not so foolish as to openly insult him.

"Her father has been looking for her everywhere" His fingers tighten around her upper arm. "We must return."

Melkor looks as if he is going to protest, and dread threatens to overtake her again, but instead he smiles a sickly smile and leans back, absorbing the image the two Ñoldor kin. "Fëanáro, how thoughtful of you, caring for your young niece." He leaves her with stare that sets her heart beating frantically, and the taste of vomit at the back of her mouth.

* * *

Fëanáro's pace is too fast, but Artanis does not speak up until they have cleared into the outer region of Finwë's gardens, glad to be out of the woods. "Uncle," she calls out, voice thin and strained, words almost carried away with the breeze. "Stop for a moment" she pleads, looking up to him with wide eyes. "Please."

Without a sound he slows, lowering them both to the trim bladed ground. So worn out from her encounter with the fallen vala that she leans against him, unsure if he'll allow it but too exhausted to do otherwise. Her proud uncle makes no move to stop her and for that she is relieved, he lets her rest, mind busy with the events of the day, unsure and scared for all the future holds. Then it grabs her, affection for Fëanáro, a sudden rush of swelling within her, she cannot stand to hate him after sharing a conversation with Melkor, that retched being. When her stomach ceases to turn she leans upward, and Fëanáro eyes her suspiciously.

"Please do not tell my father" she bursts out, for she cannot stand the thought of his worry, nor his outrage at the exchange.

Her half-uncle regards her quietly for a moment before he answers, his voice wound up and tight. "Not tell your father that his young daughter was trysting in the woods with Melkor, Hah!" he lets out a bark, anger obvious, "I have half a mind to give you the beating myself."

"Why do you mock me?" she yells back at him, tears pooling at the corner of eyes. "He approached me from the shadows and I knew not what to do. Is he not still the brother of Manwë, who sits high on the throne on Oiolossë? How can I cease to speak to such a being if I wish not to?" She forgets her pride in that moment, the stress of the day exploding around her and she sinks downwards, trying uselessly to cover her face from him.

Fëanáro lets her be, offers no comfort but his presence and a rare show of patience. He waits until her panic ceases.

"I did not mean that," he says looking down at her. "That being's nearness always drives me to rage. I do not question your loyalty Artanis." He turns to stare up towards his father's house, the gloom of the evening settling in. "How can the ruler, tasked with protecting all within his domain, be allowed to force himself into such ignorance?" Artanis has no doubt of whom he speaks, and knows that the words are treason. The irony of his statement offers her no delight, that he unknowingly compares the lord on the mountain with his own father. _That such attachment threatens fairness and duty._ But after today she cannot help but agree, Melkor was far from pure in his intentions.

"Either way, your father is worried" he continues, watching her pluck at the blades of grass beneath her palm "And for once it is with good reason. I will not speak to him of this, for he will surely increase his watch over you tenfold. Just don't wander too far next time you wish to be rid of us."

"Thank you uncle," she breathed out in relief. "I shall remember this kindness."

"I should hope you do," he huffs, standing upward and offering his hand. Both silently made their way to the courtyard, her clutching onto his arm, unspoken words lingering between them. The blood on her hands has faded into the distance, the flames on the ocean have simmered into steam.

"Artanis," Her uncle calls before they enter, his tone serious, but face giving away his reluctance. "What was it he spoke to you of?"

She owes him a response of some kind, but doesn't wish to speak of concepts such as power and freedom. Strangely thrilled by idea of them, the traitorous thoughts that had brought a flush to her cheeks, an excitement that danced so brightly across the forefront of her mind, if only for a moment. A small one, where the echoes of discord seemed perversely appealing. Artanis feels shame slither through her, a creeping sensation that begins as a shiver. She cannot speak of it to anyone.

"He complimented my hair, uncle."

Fëanáro seems disturbed by the admission, picturing the scene he happened across. The protectiveness it suggests gladdens her. But his fine features soon give way to confusion, eyeing her, searching for deception to which he finds none. His hands reach out to touch it, pulling a thin strand between them.

Artanis allows it, still swelling in her new found goodwill towards him, eyes lowered waiting. But he does not make to move.

Turning her gaze to Fëanáro's she stills. His glance punctures through her, eyes glassy and far away in the distance, seeing things not unlike monstrous visions she had. Could he taste the ash on his lips? Could hear the cries of mourning? His fingers dance between the tress he clutches, entranced, tightening his hold. His jaw clenches as he moves closer.

A familiar horror begins to rise within her.


End file.
